


Dragon Age: Thief's Anchor

by Omnibard



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fenris in Dragon Age: Inquisition, Multi, Original Player Characters, Other Original Characters Added, Outside Thedas worldbuilding, Spoiler Warnings May Apply, character interactions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:50:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fanfiction started because: "... Wow, Fenris would be hilariously awesome in Inquisition.  I'd love to see him in a party with Dorian and my Player Character/Herald... and this Original Character... Oh wow, that Original Character in Inquisition would be hilariously awesome by themselves... I'd better write all this down!.."<br/>So it's silliness that pretends to take itself very seriously.  Thedas-- nay the world-- is likely doomed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Net dreamed.

She dreamed of a choking-dark cavern filled with shrieking, shifting horrors opening into the wider, desolate dark of a shrieking, shifting blizzard.

She dreamt of cold air that tore at throat and lungs with each inhale while the roar of the elements was punctuated by the higher notes of nearby wolves on the prowl.

They were waiting for her.

She dreamt of stumbling through knee high drifts over uncertain terrain, climbing up into nowhere.  Climbing forever, even after the strength and warmth seeped from her body like blood from a wound.

The howls coming closer, the drifts getting higher, the breath coming harder.

So much harder.

And the bone-rattling shivering never stopped.

The windblown snow whirled and eddied like a violent sea, and she startled many times, seeing shapes in the swirling.  Wolves.  People.

Dragons.

She dreamt she tried to call out through a frozen throat laced with daggers of ice and lips long gone numb with cold.

She dreamt that her feet froze in the snow, and she had no more strength to trudge upward any longer.  Snow mirages swirled around her, pitiless.

Then one grabbed hold of her arm at the elbow and she was pulled free.

With long strides the snow wraith dragged her, stumbling through the drifts, and she felt the vestiges of warmth in its grasp…

Then she woke, and pain crashed down upon her like the avalanches that had taken Samson’s Templars and Haven with it, and Net knew it had not been a dream.  She’d escaped Haven with little more than her life and stumbled through the Frostback Mountains, injured and delirious with pain and shock.  She might have died there along the way-- mayhap, mayhap not-- but someone had appeared and trudged along with her.

She remembered their labored, shivering breathing.  Remembered knowing they were just as bone-weary and cold as she.  It’d been no spirit or vision.  It’d been a _person_.

She remembered collapsing in equal measures relief and exhaustion upon seeing the camp.  Remembered her allies exclaiming their joy at seeing her.

She could hear the leaders of the Inquisition arguing.  They did it often enough in the war room in Haven, but there was a deeper note of fear in it this time.

Net didn’t want to open her eyes.  She didn’t want to acknowledge everything that had happened _or_ step forward to meet the new challenges they faced.  She was tired, and hurt.

And sick to her _bones_ with this desperate fight against the twisting of the world.

She smelled Chantry incense nearby and knew it was Mother Giselle who sat beside where she lay.  But Net sensed another presence standing over her on the opposite side of the pallet bed, and her eyes sprung open while she struggled to place an elbow beneath her.

The grey-clad figure looming tall above her did not move, save to tilt his hooded head to look down at her.

“Pfaugh!” She hissed under her breath, “It was _you_?!  In the mountains?”

“Your surprise is only the smallest reflection of mine, _Herald of Andraste_.” There was a note of haughty dourness to the familiar, heavily-accented voice, buried in the impassive tones.

Net opened her mouth to give the scathing retort: she hadn’t _asked_ for this.  She was just trying to make the best of it and stay alive!  She didn’t need his austere judgements of her-- she had enough of that going around the Chantry and noblemen of two realms to suffer it from _him_.  And what in the nine hells was he doing here anyway?

But the Reverend Mother leaned over and touched her arm, “Shh.  You need your rest.”  Her expression was all nurturing concern, but the Herald caught the glance she’d given the face concealed in the gray hood.

Teeth clicking together, Net figured there would be time enough to sort out what the ascetic monk-warrior had been doing in the Frostback Mountains.  There were other things that needed her more immediate attention.

Like the enduring raised voices.

 

“How long have they been at it?”

Mother Giselle was always careful not to mar the peace-giving serenity of her expression with anything ungentle, but Net had learned to read the rueful crease in her wisened eyes, “Long enough to forget it for the luxury it is.  Though they remember the cost.  It is thanks to you they have this time, but in their uncertainty they squander it with laying blame.”  Then her expression softened; saddened, “If it continues, I fear we need not worry for Corypheus to return and destroy us-- it will already be done.”

The hooded monk made a thoughtful noise that Net ignored, “Do we know where Corypheus and his Templars and his… dragon are?”

“We cannot even be certain of where _we_ are, young Herald.  Perhaps that is why, despite his numbers and other apparent strengths, we’ve not seen sign of him.” Pausing to consider a moment, she sighed, “That, or he believes you dead.  Or us helpless without Haven.  Or perhaps he girds for another attack.  I’ve no insight on the workings of that creature’s mind… only how he has affected us.”

 

The knots of fear in her guts returned at the thought of that monster and his _pet_ monster, and his _horde_ of monsters in the shape of men in platemail.  Net sat up, and the Reverend Mother touched her shoulder gently, but with weight enough to give her pause.

“If you mean to join them, know that what we survivors have seen… has _changed_ us.  This uncertainty is born from seeing our defender… our _champion_ stand against this terrible threat… and fall.  And now we’ve seen her _return_ …”

The weight of leadership was already a collar about the elf’s shoulders.  The rising expectations of _divinity_ pressed as if to break her battered back.  She shrugged off the hand, dragging her un-Anchored hand through her short crop of dark hair.  “I _didn’t die_ and _come back!_  I don’t know who or _what_ I saw in the Fade!  Andraste had no business choosing me-- _why_ would she choose _me_ ?!  Corypheus said he _made_ this, that the Golden City is full of _shadows_ , that the throne of the Maker is _empty_!”

“No one can return from across the Veil… but the people know what they saw.  Or perhaps what they _needed_ to see.  You must permit them this hope, child, they are broken without it.  Especially in the face of Corypheus’s claims and terrible might.”

“Hope isn’t going to do a _thing_ about his terrible might…” Lurching to her feet, Net made her way resolutely, though a little unsteadily, to the fire where the four leaders-- Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra-- had stopped arguing to sulk their mutual frustration and despair, sensing the monk a step behind her.  To one side of the impromptu encampment, the other newest guest of the Inquisition, ‘Cole’, knelt with Chancellor Roderick as he lay bleeding the last of his life away from a Templar’s blade through the belly.

Nearby, attempting to give comfort to the other wounded, was the mousy human woman, Freja, her skirts stained with their blood and tears while her own glimmered in her eyes, yet unshed, and Fenris, her darkly brooding elven guardian nearby.  Those two were old friends of Varric’s, and only the percolating threat of imminent and ferocious violence from the strange tattooed elven warrior kept Cassandra from interrogating them as she had apparently done with the dwarf.  For now.  Net had no idea what the ex-Seeker was after.

 

The air was heavy with defeat and fear.  Knowing it was her place to say something, Net had no words.  She longed to retreat deep into the shadows somewhere.

Mother Giselle had other plans, for she had stepped out as well, and started to sing.

It was a Chantry hymn, of course, the simple poetry of the lyrics and rise and fall of the melody harmonized in the otherwise stillness of the camp.  One by one, voices rose to join her: first Leliana, a Chantry sister and bard in previous lives, her clear soprano pairing with the Reverend Mother’s lower tones.  Then others.  Even Cullen.  The people gathered, singing, drawn to the firelight and the song like tide to shore.

Several came to kneel at the Herald’s feet.

A thrill of terror drove Net to step back, but her retreat was blocked by the grey-clad monk, who stood as solid and impassible as the mountains he’d led her through.

“ _Without_ hope, you cannot even begin to face the challenge before you.” He said it quietly, almost _gently_ , before stepping away.

Still they were singing.  Freja’s tears spilled over at last as she closed her eyes, parting her lips to join the song with a voice that Andraste might envy.

Cole bent to brush closed the eyes of Chancellor Roderick, who had led them this far, but could go no further.

On the fringes of the camp, Net saw how Solas watched them.  Watched _her_ , and she envied him his position.  The center of attention favored her _poorly_.

When at last it was done, and an impossible hush fell over the camp, Mother Giselle spoke, “An army needs more than an enemy.  It needs a cause.”

The elf turned her eyes to the Chantry Mother, then the monk.  This wasn’t her army, she wanted to say.  She just carried this stupid _magic curse_.  It was Cullen’s army, or Cassandra’s or Leliana’s army!

And what was the monk doing here on the border between Ferelden and Orlais that he’d stop to be _party_ to all this?!  She’d meant to ask, but Solas had circled the camp in that time--no great feat, it wasn’t _large_ \-- and come at her elbow.

“A word?”

She was almost _grateful_ to follow him out into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Once out in the darkness with Solas, Net quickly remembered why she didn’t seek out Solas’s company.  It was all _ancient elven magic_ and _mysteries of the Fade_ with him.  Oh, and _our people_.  He liked to say that to her.  Often.

The elves _weren’t_ her people, for all that they shared a sort of physical likeness.  Net didn’t _have_ a people.

But Solas had helped her, in the beginning of this madness, keeping her alive when the mark on her hand sought to consume her wholly.  He was still helping, in his own irritating ways, so she heard him out and tried not to roll her eyes.  He _had_ said something interesting about a place to the north...

When she returned to the center of camp, _another_ problem was brewing: drawn by the singing, Dorian had emerged, curious, from his tent.  As ill-luck would have it, Fenris noted him in the dispersing crowd.  How they had managed to avoid meeting earlier in the short time they spent together in Haven, Net couldn’t say.

Dorian was the scion of a Tevinter Magister, and a powerful mage in his own right.  Fenris had apparently been a slave to a Tevinter Magister, whom he slaughtered in Kirkwall, according to Varric.  The torments the elf had been through had engendered in him a distrust of all mages so strong, it bordered very near to flat-out hatred.  Not, the dwarf was quick to add, that he was very nice to _anybody_.  Except perhaps Freja.

The elf must have recognized the Tevinter’s style of dress, or the family crest upon the grimoire at his belt, for he let out a colorful phrase in Tevene and stepped forward in a manner so aggressive it sent some of the dispersing survivors of Haven stumbling to get out of his way.

“Oh shit…” Varric muttered, rubbing his brow with one hand.

The elf’s human companion moved as well, grabbing fast to his arm as if she dared believe her slight frame would stop him while Cole stood up, speaking fast and soft about chains and blood and hurting and bone-deep fear.  Net thought she saw him fingering his knife.

“Fenris…” Freja whispered tremulously, hugging his lean but powerful arm against her breast.

Hearing his mother tongue, Dorian turned to see this scene unfolding, and found himself the target of the unfamiliar elf’s hostility.  The Tevinter understood, no matter how loosely, that the enmity between these southern lands and his homeland were such as to make himself and his culturally held views-- concerning magic specifically, as well as the finer points of civilized society, and the practice of slavery--perhaps unwelcomed.  Already he’d engaged in a few _tete-a-tetes_ with various members of the Inquisition, but none of them had been _elven._  Solas was too engaged in his own affairs to enter discourse on the few occasions they’d been in each other’s vicinity.  The Herald had all the look and none of the concerns of an elf, and therefore could hardly be considered, despite her often pointed questions and the occasional sharper retort.  So Dorian was not in the practice of being confronted by elves-- slaves or otherwise.  Especially ones he’d never met before and had no knowledge of wronging.  The slight bemused haughtiness in his voice, therefore, could not be entirely to his fault.

“Is there a problem?”

A faint tremor passed through the elf’s body as Fenris struggled to control the rage in his blood.  With effort he turned his gaze scathingly to Cullen, “In this nest of vipers you’ve surrounded yourself with, what madness possessed you to bring a _Tevinter Magister_?!”

“Oh, what _is it_ with you people--” Bemoaned Dorian with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

“It wasn’t really my decision…” Cullen admitted, busily searching his memories of his time in Kirkwall concerning _this elf_ that he’d address him with such familiarity bordering on _disdain_.

“Easy, elf,” Varric piped up in a pacifying tone, “He’s one of the good guys…”

That spark of amusement gleamed in the Tevinter’s gaze,“I beg your pardon?  I’m certain you mean to say I’m one of the _best_ guys, thank you…”

“A _slaver_ and _malificar_ ?” Cassandra observed with sarcasm, “I think _not_.”

Another roll of the eyes from Dorian, though his tone gained some heat, “I am _not_ \--”

“Enough.”

The word came quiet, but the steel in it cut through, commanding silence and attention.  Net had been half-seriously considering heading north _by herself_ , but now found herself fixed in place by the word, shivering.  All eyes fell upon the man in gray who had brought her through the snow to reach this place.  He spoke again, “This bickering serves you naught better than it did before.  Surely we’ve more needful tasks and worthy goals to attend.”

“He makes a fine point…” Cassandra admitted uneasily.

Leliana climbed to her feet from where she’d been sitting on the ground, “But who is he?  And what does he want?”

“I cannot place the accent…” Observed the Inquisition’s ambassador, Josephine, mildly put-out, but otherwise intrigued by the beautiful way he curled the Trade tongue words.

The figure swept a bow then, all supple grace and composed strength, crossing his bracer-clad arms at his chest and bending at the hips, arms extending at the nadir.  His arms uncrossed as he rose upright again, bringing his chainmail-backed hands to simply graze the twin daggers slung low at his belt.  Memories nagged, and Net would have groaned impatiently and turned away if the movement hadn’t been such a pleasure to behold.

“I am Chael Andrelus, of the Shedos Brotherhood, from Aisaure, an island to the north of the mist-veiled land you call ‘Seheron’.”

“From outside Thedas?” Cullen wondered, “But there’s _nothing_ outside--”

“No.” Leliana and Dorian said it together, and after sharing a quick glance, it was Leliana who continued, “There are stories and rumors of other civilized lands in the Boeric Ocean.  How they’ve survived the Tevinter Imperium and Qunari invasions is… less known.”

“What is this Shedos Brotherhood?” Josephine wanted to know, eyeing the newcomer.

“No.   _Later_ .” Net stepped forward, pinching between her eyes, “When we’re not freezing out in the open like this.  Why are you _here_ , Chael?  What do you _want_?”

The hooded head turned, and though she could only see the faintest silhouette of his face in the shadows of its depths, the firelight reflected off ocean-blue eyes that fixed on her. “I have sworn an oath of service, and an oath of protection, Herald of Andraste.”

Now all eyes were on Net again and she sighed, suppressing the shiver that crept through her limbs, “So _two_ oaths, then.  To me?  The Inquisition?”

The Shedos bowed his head, a lock of curly, honey-red-gold hair slipping free of the gray hood.  “One each, so long as your efforts bend toward the end of this crisis.” He indicated the scar in the sky where the Breach had been just yesterday-- Net wondered that it was truly only _yesterday_.

“Fine,” Net shook her head, then turned to the group, “Listen: I’ve word there may be a safe place to the north of here.  In the morning I’ll set off with a few others to scout ahead, but I’ll need the bulk of you to stay back with the rest of the survivors.”

“We cannot just let them sit here in the open.  Our supplies won’t last long as it is…” Cullen replied.

“They can follow behind after striking camp.  In this terrain and this weather, they’ll be slow enough with the carts we managed to get out.” Was the Spymaster’s reply.

Cassandra’s eyes were sharp as she looked at Net, “What place is this that you heard of?  From whom?”

“I have seen it, I believe.  Distantly.” The Shedos intoned, “A large fortress tucked between peaks.”

“You’ll come with me, then,” Net sighed, “You and Solas.”

“Then I am coming as well,” the ex-Seeker announced sternly. “Solas has proven himself trustworthy, but I know nothing of this mysterious person or his motivations…”

A stillness settled over Chael, and Net got the impression he was offended.  His voice came stiffly, “I have sworn an oath to protect her and another to serve your cause.”

“He helped me get here, when I might not have,” Net offered reluctantly, “And I’ve experienced his dedication to his oaths before.  His word is better than most.   _Too good_ , even.” She added wryly.

“I may need your help here,” Leliana told Cassandra, “And the smaller the scout party, the faster they can move through this terrain.”

The Right Hand of the Divine looked and the Left Hand and grimly nodded her assent.

“So it’s settled then?” The Herald looked around, then at Solas, who nodded, and Chael, who gave his graceful bow again. “Good.  We’ll meet here at first light.”

Solas turned and disappeared in the maze of tents.  The Shedos lingered, but Net ignored him and stepped nearer Cassandra and Cullen.

Dorian had looked thoughtfully at Chael, then Net, then shrugged and returned to his tent to prepare and rest.  Freja had managed to convince Fenris to let things lie for now, it seemed, for he’d turned to organize their meager belongings and the woman returned to her duties of healing and comfort, Cole lingering by her.

“You’ll need to watch for that,” warned Net, inclining her head toward Fenris, “The Tevinter won’t mind his words and that elf won’t mind his temper should the girl not be around to mind it for him.”

“He’s better than he was,” Varric assured them, adjusting the lapel of his coat and stepping near, adopting the she-elf’s quieter tone. “The broody elf won’t do anything rash.  Not while we’re all on the same side.  Hazel’s committed herself to the Inquisition, and he’s committed to _her_.”

“What about the other one… that ‘Cole’?” Cassandra asked, eyeing him over Net’s shoulder.

Again, the Herald shook her head, “We can settle about him later.  He said he wants to help, so let him help for now.”

Eyes narrowing, the ex-Seeker’s eyes turned to Net next, “And you trust this foreigner, this ‘Shedos Brother from Aisaure’?”

Giving a long sigh, the she-elf shrugged resignedly, “He’s given his word.  He’d rather die than break it.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a long story.  For later.”

Mother Giselle and Cullen went to see to the proper rites over Chancellor Roderick and Cassandra beckoned Chael over to her laid out map.  Net gestured for Solas to join them and he did so.

“Where did you see this fortress?”

Exhaustion rang in Net’s head, so she slipped away and returned to her pallet to sleep off her bruises, barely noting what Leliana said about watches.


	3. Chapter 3

As it was, the Spymaster had arranged for Net to take final watch for the night-- dawnwatch-- and so the ‘Herald of Andraste’ paced the perimeter of the snowbound camp alone, bow in hand, scanning the rocky slopes that rose abruptly around them for movement.  It was easier to do with air clear of all but lightly blowing snow.  The wind never really  _ stopped _ blowing up here it seemed.

It was unforgiving and harsh terrain.  She wasn’t looking forward to trekking through it, but she comforted herself that the Templars with their heavy platemail would have a far  _ far _ harder time of it if they sought to follow them.

Corypheus and his dragon-maybe-Archdemon however, wouldn’t have much trouble at  _ all.   _ It made her eager to get going.

At the first hint of sunlight peeking over the horizon, she made her way to the center of the camp, kicking at Leliana’s tent as she passed.  A short gasp informed her that she’d successfully woken the Spymaster and she continued to the low fire.  The Shedos Brother was already there, and it seemed he had coaxed the smoldering remains from last night into something useful for breakfast cooking and heat.  He greeted her with the graceful bow characteristic to his order and Net sighed at the tedium of his manners before turning to see Solas join them.

“Good morning,” He said quietly, “Are we ready, then?”

“Let’s go.” Net turned and led the way north.

They made good time, and Net was glad she’d acquired herself some heavy gloves and a cloak with hood to wrap about herself.  She still shivered, hating the men a bit-- Solas didn’t seem to  _ feel _ the weather at all, and Chael was too disciplined to betray his discomfort even if he felt any.  It was a small comfort that the snow was such that her light weight did not force her to sink through it.  In places it was up to the Shedos’s knees and he was forced to wade, though it did not seem to slow him.

After a time, with the sun fully over the horizon, the mage was driven to speak, “Chael, you told us you were from the ‘Shedos Brotherhood’.  Is that a religious fraternity or a trade guild?”

“Both.  And neither.” Was the inscrutable reply, “The Brethren are called to uphold the precepts of Shed-Macha the Protector, and so we are trained as priests and scholars.  However the precepts are of service and sacrifice, often through steel.  Not proselytization.  Ours is the task of protecting the scions of the Blessed Progeny and the Blessed Mother, or any that are found needful enough.  For these services we receive no payment.”

“Steel and not magic?” It was a leading question, and Net knew it immediately-- of course the first thing the damned mage would want to know about was foreign  _ magic _ .  If Chael knew it, it did not seem to matter.  He didn’t miss a beat and his answer came just as impassive,

“What you call ‘magic’ we call  _ cabalis _ .   _ Cabalis _ is blasphemy before all our gods, and  _ cabalists _ \-- what you might call ‘mages’--are heretics.”

Resisting the urge to smack her hand against the front of her face, Net piped up, “Can we talk about something--”

“--’Blasphemy’?  ‘Heretics’?  For a gift given to them at birth?!” The outrage in the elf mage’s voice was palpable despite the root of curiosity in his query.

“No one is born a  _ cabalist _ \--”

“--How do you know?”

The Shedos seemed either well-prepared for this conversation, or patient beyond Net’s ken, for his tone never changed from that impassive civility, “‘T’were it a gift granted at birth, it would not be blasphemy.”

“That’s  _ all _ ?  Religious dogma dictates the law with circular reasoning?”

“Forgive me, good master,” Chael interjected, the barest hint of coolness entering his voice upon hearing the scorn in Solas’s, “you are an elf, like my lady Net, the Herald of Andraste?”

Net bristled at the title--  _ both _ titles.

“I am,” Solas answered.

“And a mage, I suppose, master elf?”

“My name is Solas, and yes, I am a mage as well as an elf.”

“We are well met, master Solas,” the Shedos said quietly, “There are no elves in Aisaure either.  It is not a land like Thedas.”

“A land of nothing but humans?  It would  _ figure, _ then, your opinions on magic--”

“--Forgive me, there are no  _ humans _ in Aisaure, master Solas.”

“Are  _ you _ not a human, Chael?” Now the mage was staring at the hooded head, as if he could peer through the gray cloth and perceive what he did not know.

“No,” Chael told him frankly, “Aisaure was the land granted to the scions of Blessed Agema and her Progeny-- the Seraphagien.  The ichor of the gods commingled in our mortal blood and gives manifest to our many gifts.   _ Cabalis _ is not one of the privileges granted to us through  _ any _ line of divinity.  It is a tool, kept safe jealously by the gods, so that we do not subvert our purpose with vanity and hubris.  Therefore, any who practice  _ cabalis _ have learned it, and are guilty of stealing knowledge from the gods.  It is  _ blasphemy _ , master Solas.  I understand it is not so in Thedas.  However, you asked of Aisaure, and I have told you.”

In her frustration, Net had stomped ahead, navigating the hazardous ridgeline and trying to escape what promised to be a long, infuriating debate.  But nothing else stirred out here, and voices carried long.

The men kept up despite her efforts, if they even noticed her haste.

Solas was quiet, and thoughtful for a time, then, “So… you believe yourself a demigod?  Part divine?”

“I am Seraphagien, and a Shedos Brother, master Solas.”

The elf considered a moment, “A status of semi-divinity seems to cast doubts on the accusations of blasphemy and heresy… If you are all demigods then magic is simply an affront that offends you.”

“I apologize,” The Shedos said, though he did not  _ sound _ very apologetic, “You seem to misunderstand.  I did not tell you of our bloodlines to assume any sort of superiority, master Solas.  I revealed it to inform that we  _ know _ our gods.  They walked Aisaure and claimed it for their own and bore us from their loins.  The precepts they laid down were the first laws of the land, and they are sacred laws kept untouched by their scions.  These laws brim in our blood and to defy them is to go against not only the decree of our forbears but also our very selves.”

The morning sunlight blazed across the Frostbacks, making everything  _ so bright _ .  Net could see for many miles at this vantage, but there was no fortress to be found.  Sighing, she went on, seeking out the swiftest paths north while keeping an eye for an easy passage for carts and injured.

It was so much  _ harder _ to think for others instead of simply herself.

Solas returned to his inquiries, “So tell me, then.  What becomes of these-- ah… ‘cabalis’ heretics?”

“Master Solas, it is not my intention to upset you.”

“I think it only fair to understand the thoughts you’ll possess while in my company.”

“Presently, I am concerned with upsetting you.”

“How strange that you care so much for my feelings when you don’t seem very interested in  _ theirs _ , Brother Chael.” 

Net was not surprised to hear that the Shedos did not reply.  She hoped that would be the end of it.

Upon climbing up a steep slope and gaining the next rocky precipice, she discovered that it  _ wasn’t _ .

“So mages are not granted the protection of the Brotherhood?” Solas wanted to know.

“No, master Solas.” If Chael felt anything about this enduring interrogation, it was not evident in his voice or mannerisms.

“Then why have you come?”

“As I said before: I have sworn an oath of protection and an oath of service.”

Solas’s brows raised and that smirk began at his lips-- the one Net recognized he wore when he was feeling  _ particularly _ clever, “An oath of service to mages, and an oath to protect an elfin woman who wields heretical power…?”

“As you say, master Solas.” Chael said quietly, effectively ending the discussion.

Solas looked admittedly a bit disappointed in his victory.  Net glanced at the tension in the gray-clad shoulders and promised herself to put something slightly toxic in the elf’s food tonight.

At least the rest of the scouting was conducted in relative quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Got questions? Want to talk about it? [Here's your mic! ](https://mtraki.tumblr.com/ask)


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